


Bad Sex

by resurrectionmercy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward First Times, Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Guilt, Sexual Content, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 09:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16385309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectionmercy/pseuds/resurrectionmercy
Summary: If Angela ever needed proof of the unintented and coincidental nature of love and relationships, Genji was that for her.





	Bad Sex

* * *

 

The first time could have been beautiful. It starts with Angela sitting against the cliffside of Mount Gibraltar, staring at the mist-covered outline of Morocco somewhere out there just beyond of her sight. She's 27, with her hair flowing down over her neck, heavy and thick (in need of a cut), and her shirt dangles down low on her shoulders, making her feel casual, making her feel pretty, and, frankly, making her feel a little bit flirty. Already, she can feel the guilt coming. Genji's next to her, his head resting on her shoulder as he plays with his phone, images popping in and out of the holoscreen. She listens to the beeping mix in with the waves and the cries of the gulls around them and she feels this mixture of tensions, of excitement and anxiety, and the longer they stay there, the heavier her guilt turns. She should be up there, working at the Watchpoint. It doesn't matter that it's her free time, because technically, most of the time she works is her "free time". The fact that Genji asked her here to spend time with him also hardly matters; she could have declined, and yet, she didn't. Her heart races, and even that is a bad thing. _Thum thum thum_ in her ears, nonstop, like a machine pounding at sheet metal.

She wants to kiss him, but she can't, and he's oblivious, of course. He's usually oblivious. So, when it finally happens, it comes much too late for her; it's him now who lifts his head and kisses her instead, and God, she's miserable as she responds to it, torn apart inside, not because she doesn't want to kiss him back but because she wants it too much.

She's 27. She's in love. It's the wrong time, the wrong place, and the wrong (oh just _how_ wrong) person. He's her patient. She saved his life. The fact that he fell for her is not his fault, but it is her responsibility. And here she is. Why _is_ she here? She knew what he was asking for when he sent her the message. She knew what he expected when he stood there in his thin white shirt that was either too big for him or too fashionable for Angela to understand - quite possibly both. It covered him up to his thighs, and from that point, for only a few inches, his training joggers covered his legs. From knees down, where he'd tied up the pantlegs, he was all cyborg.  
  
Her build - her design.  
  
And yet here he is, kissing her, like she's anyone. And she's kissing him back like _he_ is just anyone, because screw Hippocrates, right?

He isn't just anyone. Shimada Genji, 25, is her patient. She saved his life. She _rebuilt_ him. And this kiss could as well be the end of her career, the death of her moral purity, and the death of everything she ever believed in, of everything she thought of herself.

 _You are his doctor_ , she tells herself as they walk up from the beach, and she's laughing even though she wants to cry inside, because he's funny, and he's attractive, and he's 25 and she's 27 and she wants to press herself against him and kiss him again. He's the perfect height to be kissed, and although his speech is still slurred and although his lips sometimes still feel unresponsive when he presses them against hers, every touch from him is heaven to her. She loves him. He loves her. And he's her patient.

He feels warm and good against her on the bed. How they ended up there is a long line of mistakes, made step by step up the hill and the winding military tunnels inside the mountain until they surface above-ground within the Watchpoint's boundaries. She could have, at any point, told him this is far enough, and oh, how it's all been a mistake - or she could have stopped as if waking up from a trance and put her foot down and told him, firmly, that she'd just regained her senses and no, he could not come up to her room to listen to music with her. This was _not_ happening. But it's addictive to see the glow in his eyes, that spark that she'd never, ever seen in them before, not since he'd been brought to her as a bleeding mess, barely able to breathe, in a different world half a year ago - she wants to see him happy, and the closer they got to the room, the closer he seemed to get to heaven, and the closer he was to heaven, the closer she was to a hell she never wanted to leave.

 _Stupid girl_ , she tells herself, kissing him again. _Stupid. Weak._

She feels like she's lost control. There's no way she can tell him to leave now. His arm around her body, his fingers touching her shoulder and stroking down her arm (with incredible fluidity of motion and control, she notes; the joints are finally working the way they both want them to), and his frame relaxed against hers, her side touching his and a good portion of his belly, all artificial pliant muscle under the plate of armour that he's removed. He seems to feel at ease with her like she feels with him, like she won't judge; he's so careful about his body now, _ashamed_ of it, at odds with it, but with her, she can sense an excitement beneath all that shame and fear and inability to adjust. The brewing potential of power - the new-found flexibility of his shell, the durability of it, the _sensitivity_ of it. All of that nerve-imbued plating, all of those fine-tuned artificial muscles that are so, so sensitive both to his commands and to external stimulus, connected to this reinforced and improved spine via a network much faster and more sensitive than the biology he was born with - with her, it's opportunity, and he's a miracle, a wonder, not a freak. She doesn't look at him that way. Sometimes, she looks at him much worse than the others, like he's nothing but his frame, a well-built machine designed for its multipurpose ends, but this is not one of those times, and those times are confined into the medical bay, into their tests, his rehabilitation. Outside that time, she looks at him the way nobody else does; as something _normal_. She's never shocked by him, never put off by him, never flustered or stumbling upon her choice of words when trying to address him without insulting him or making him feel uncomfortable. To her, everything about him is matter-of-fact. He loves it. Maybe that's why he loves her; to her, and to her  _only_ , he's just Genji. This might well be the only place in the world where he's not primarily a cyborg, not primarily something else. Here, he's human.

It has to be intoxicating, she thinks. And she loves him.

So much.

That spark, that flame that exists within his frames, within his flesh, that burns with passion and humour and excitement and drive and dedication, determination, is what he is to her. Not his disabilities, not his insecurities, but that pulsating force of life that refuses to be shut down, and despite multiple clashes with death, always resurfaces as bright and unyielding as before. She knows that without her, he'd be dead, and all of that would be gone, but in her mind that refuses the inconvenience of logic and reason, she wishes she wasn't his saviour, that it had been someone else even though there is no one else, and she could just love him for who he is without being responsible for him still being there for her to love to begin with. It's not a burden for her, it's not an obstacle - it's a wall of uncrossable mountains that separates them into two worlds that should not be touching, should not be _allowed_ to touch, and never to mix, not ever. And yet, when his palm moves under her shirt and lays flat upon her belly, she doesn't stop him. Why would she? Her entire body tingles with anticipation, eagerness and pleasure as his touch with all its very, very unique detail meets the smoothness and vulnerability of her bare skin. She may even breathe out a gasping little breath, perhaps push her spine up ever so slightly to have more of him at once. He wants it, too, and she can sense him relaxing when he realises he's not taking things too far. He moves over her, and she drops her tablet; he kisses her on the mouth again, this time with his body gently pressing on top of her, tryingly, asking for her permission even though they're both too shy for words. She presses back against it, against him, wanting his whole weight on him, and she wraps her arms around him, and she holds him, and he holds her in turn, and his mouth moves for her neck and she's burning, and his fingers are here and there and her hair's a mess, a crow's nest or a slain mermaid's crown above and around her head, rubbing into the pillows. He settles between her legs, something in his plating catching in her leggins and tugging at them and she wonders very briefly whether the tug damaged the fabric despite the fact that he's still wearing his joggers, and whether this is something she should be fine-tuning in the design in the future.

And that one thought, like a shadow or a bird of bad omens, brings back the crushing weight of her guilt. It crashes through the passion and desire and she's frozen and she wants to cry, so she holds onto him tight and pushes her face into the crook of his neck, feeling the smooth, rubbery texture of the muscle there, exposed past his very, very thin shirt's stretched-out collar. She lets out a breath that's only half a breath and half a sob and his hand is in her hair and he slides down, his forehead pressing against her, and he's breathing, and his breath is out of order like hers, and she sobs again, this time with tears, and shakes her head, apologising repeatedly. _This is not what I wanted. This is not what you wanted. This should have never happened. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry._

He shakes his head, and he pulls her up like she's weightless, puts her on his lap as he sits back and rests his weight on his knees, and he holds her and she feels like a little child in his grasp as she holds onto him and her hips settle over his thighs and his arms are very strong and firm around her body, and she's suddenly aware of how small her own frame is, how thin she is in comparison to his wide build, and how soft she is, how much of her is flesh and fat and how much of him is metal and wires. He holds her tightly and quietly and she lets this weakness wash over her as she fights the disappointment she feels inside, the judgement of her own self, the burning guilt and that loud voice in her head that tells her she's gone too far and there's no turning back and this is wrong and she can never take it back. She's not crying anymore, if she ever was, but she wants to hit herself or bang her head into a wall and run off and never look back, and all this time he is that wall of mountains she pictured before, standing firm against her as she struggles, taking it moment to moment without ever letting her fall apart alone.

Finally, he lets her back down on the bed, and he's smiling a little crooked smile that brightens his eyes, bringing the shade of amber back into the tint of red resulting from the enhancements to his vision. She sighs and closes her eyes and he combs her hair back in order before standing up from the bed.

"Would you like me to stay, Angela?" he asks, and she knows he no longer means for sex, but for company, for support, for friendship.

"No," she tells him; "It's better that you go."

He nods as she looks at him again, and he doesn't seem insulted, only a little dejected, if even that.  
"I'll see you in the morning, then. Have a good night."

He doesn't say he loves her, but she knows.  


* * *

 

The second time doesn't go much better, even though it comes years later. They're older now, and the Watchpoints are past to them. He's wearing the outfit of a monk, or something close to it; baggy pants with decorations of hand-painted beads and feathers he's found or been gifted, beads around his wrists, and plain sandals. No shirt, no socks, nothing else either, and he seems a stranger at first. Something about that spark that Angela used to love is... at first, she thinks it's gone, but it isn't, only changed, changed beyond recognition initially, or grown, and it seems to have become something that she finds offputting and alien about him. It doesn't scare her but she finds herself missing the boy that she knew in him, that has now not only turned into a man but a man of a wholly different kind, whose mind longs for peace instead of action, and who is no longer restless, but still looking for purpose. And yet still, by the end of the night she finds herself pressing against him, and his arms are the weight she last felt them around her lower back, holding her but not restricting her, merely reassuringly pressing against her body in the wind. She's there for humanitarian work, he's there - God knows why. They've been sending letters back and forth and one day, the letters were delivered with dates and times written upon them. Agreements were made, and here they now stand, body to body, with a full moon over them and the sudden cold of a desert biting into them. He even smells different, although Angela can't remember what he used to smell like beyond the metallic, artificial smell of his cybernetic body before. Now there's a gentleness, spiciness to that smell that clings even to the structure of his frame, but most strongly in his hair that's still messy and a little oily from the time he covers it with his headplates. It's longer and gone uncut for an extended period of time, nothing like he used to wear it when Angela knew him before, but even embraced by this new Genji, she feels safe and welcome. The guilt she remembers from their time before doesn't bite her as hard now. She's not his doctor anymore. They haven't met each other in years. He ran, and she ran, and they separated, didn't talk for two years before the letters started crossing the globe, always hand-written, never electronic, slow like the fire eating away at charred wood, barely a glow between the long, long stretches of ashen black. She works her magic at crisis centers now, at relief efforts, in refugee camps. And Genji? Genji studies under an omnic monk - he calls him Master Zenyatta. He's one of the Shambali, friend or brother or associate of Mondatta, a large religious figure from the same faith. He seems happier, somehow. More at ease, more at balance. But still not whole, still not... ready, somehow. As if he's on the way somewhere, and not yet at the destination.

Angela feels the same. She was very certain when she left Overwatch, but when she heard the news of what came after - then, suddenly, she was lost. That feeling has followed her all the way here, but so have the feelings of her younger self, the medical prodigy that at least in her own eyes hasn't aged too well. Perhaps her looks haven't changed, perhaps she is as healthy as ever, and perhaps even more so thanks to the advancements of science and her own research and the improvements they've allowed her in the physical sense. But inside? Inside, she just feels weary now. Like she's been stuck in a maze for too long, a starving rat with nowhere to run, just more and more walls and dead ends wherever she turns. She doesn't have anywhere to go. Genji, on the other hand... he seems to be on his way somewhere.

He holds her hand as they disappear inside her tent. They talk for so long that the night's at its darkest when he falls on the field bed and lets out that satisfied, relaxed sigh and closes his eyes. She sits on the ground beside the low bed on a thick carpet, the same one she lands her bare feet on every morning as she hops up from the bed and prepares for work, and she watches him and she feels dreamy and tired and strangely content where she is for the first time in months. He reaches out his hand to her, eyes closed, and pulls her beside him. The blanket falls on top of them, and she curls up close to him, and in the early morning's buzz much later, he wakes up to kiss her neck and her collarbones, and she doesn't get up to her alarm but turns it off, and she responds to him by craning her neck, revealing more skin, and a sense of submission flows into her - it all feels right this time. In this time and place, for her, the puzzle pieces finally fit together, and there's no hesitation or second thoughts on her part. She lets him close, she lets him touch and explore her, and perhaps her own calm and peace is why it comes as such a surprise to her when his touches dry out and he tenses and finally, in the end, draws away completely. He sits up at the edge of the bed, cross-legged in a half-lotus position, and she leans close to him, rests her palm over his shoulder, lets her fingertip trace the shape of his cheekbone and the expression of dissatisfaction and frustration on him before he finally looks at her and all that smooths out of his expression, replaced by an apologetic softness, a care, an affection that wants her to understand something he doesn't have the words for.

"I'm sorry," he says the words that she couldn't stop repeating before. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong. Come have breakfast with me before it's gone. It'll be a hot day. You'll need the salts."

He chuckles, and there's a relief to his chuckle. The apology fades from him and he nods. She wants him to know he didn't disappoint; her body's still tingling from his touches but it's secondary to her, a comfort/discomfort that sticks with her even as they joke and laugh over paper cups full of freshly squeezed orange juice and plates of salty eggs with some unidentified pieces of fried vegetables. He's never let her down. Last time, he held her when she couldn't - it's her turn now to tell him, too, that she loves him for more than what he's ready to brave for her. It's enough to just hear him laugh, to be near him. Nothing else really matters.  


* * *

 

It doesn't take quite as long for them to meet again after that. The world is changing, and Angela feels trapped where she is - trapped between two callings, one seemingly much stronger than the other yet the ache of it growing each day. She doesn't expect it when she hears a knock on her window, finally back in Switzerland after years of humanitarian work around the world. Her apartment smells of loneliness and misplacement, but she can tell apart the hardness of the sound on the glass atypical both to birds and debris alike, and something in her knows to expect to see the hazy green glow of Genji's body when she lifts her gaze from her laptop and turns around to face the window. It's the seventh floor of an apartment building; only very few people would be stupid enough to try and reach her from the outside. She smiles, changing the dim lighting around the house a little brighter as she gets up and walks to her window. Genji dangles from it on one hand, the other busy twisting off the parts of his faceguard; they watch each other as Angela struggles with her window, and she can see the grin on his features grow and grow from the light in his eyes, and he can see her breaking up in nervous, anxious laughter when the window refuses to open enough to let him in. It's stuck in its hinges, and he's just barely clinging to the wall, looking like he could so easily just fall off - even though Angela knows better, of course. She built those hands, those arms, she knows the power of his grip and the pure practiced skill that puts all that technology to its best use. Still, the sheer thought of that is both terrifying and amusing in the worst possible way; she can see him falling, and herself looking helplessly through the partially open window.

And then, as it finally opens, he does fall. She doesn't even bother getting shocked, a lack of reaction that concerns her briefly as she leans down through the opening and stares at him as he dangles now from the smallest seam in the wall, grinning up at her.

"Didn't get you that time?" he asks, pulling himself back up, then lifting himself onto her windowsill with a push from his feet against the imperfections in the outerior surfaces.

"No," Angela sighs, "I suppose I know you better than that."

He laughs as he settles to sit on the window, one leg outside, one inside. Angela looks at the city outside and wonders if anyone can see him there, glowing dully against the misty night's lights, a mere shadow against the light of her own apartment with her by his side. If someone does - if someone's looking, right now, they must be seeing something like an art installation, a photograph... a painting. One man, one woman, an odd modern Romeo and Juliet with no balcony, hanging by the windowside. She shivers, her fingertips reaching for the back of Genji's palm; the man lets her touch him, and he tilts his head, eyes curious, a little teasing, and there's something in there that makes her grab his hand and pull him inside. He lands like a nimble cat, soundlessly, on her floor, and from there he's soon on his feet, kissing her light on her lips.

She's left there standing, blushing, although the gentle glow of her apartment's lights and the candles in jars all over the rooms leave it mostly invisible to the naked eye. Unfortunately, she knows his eyes are not naked. He could discern her blushing in darkness much deeper than this.

"May I invite myself over for a cup of tea?" he asks her, throwing a playful glance over his shoulder as he's already on his way to the kitchen.

Angela stirs, a shudder rushing through her spine like electricity rebooting her systems. She nods and follows him, and in the kitchen he leans to her table with his back almost touching the laptop she left there, the white plating and the bright metal of his frame reflecting the flames of the candles and the bulbs buried between the planks covering her ceiling. She fills her kettle with water and places it back upon its base, where it starts rumbling instantly with energy heating up the water. The LEDs in the base glow blue to indicate the water's temperature - lukewarm - but in seconds the lights are already turning towards violet, and from there to pink, and from pink to magenta, from magenta to... Angela's eyes still upon Genji, the marks of battle written all over his plating, and he looks at her and runs his fingertips over his body.

"Don't worry," he tells her in a soft voice, "I am not injured. These are old marks. I have not had the time to get myself back to a more - presentable - condition. I'm sorry to turn up in such shape; I should have dressed better."

There's a moment of hesitation, and then he laughs.

"Well, one could say that I should have dressed in the first place - worn any clothes. But I didn't. And here I am, in my naked glory."

Angela rolls her eyes, sitting down in a chair.  
"You're not naked," she says.  
It's not the first time they've had this conversation.

"I think it's a matter of philosophy. What is nudity, anyway? Does it mean exposed skin - if so, then I am not naked, as I have no skin to expose. But if it simply means wearing no clothes to cover one's body - then I am. If it means having one's body completely without cover, then my armour might serve as some form of _covering_ , and therefore I would not be entirely naked after all. What do you think?" Genji asks, his hands now busy with removing the detachable parts of his faceguard entirely.

"I think you've spent too much time in a monastery debating philosophy with the monks, Genji," Angela chuckles, "What interests me is how you managed to get so torn up."

"I have quite recently discovered two things - one is that my brother still fights like an angry tiger, and has the strength of a dragon. Another is that Talon's agents are everywhere, and they do seem to think that I have realigned myself with Overwatch, or at least they wish to fight me like it's the old times. Perhaps they are merely angry. Nevertheless, it feels safe in Switzerland. Is that why you are here? Things are so peaceful near the ruins of our old... core. As if it still radiates fear into the hearts of those who have nothing but disdain for peace."

Angela shrugs. The kettle behind her lets out a jingle and she stands up, pouring Genji a mug of hot water; she places it next to him on the table, then moves a basket full of different teas towards him.

"There is some green tea from your homeland," she tells him, nodding towards the basket, "but if you want something else, you are free to choose anything you'd like."

Genji picks up the tea ball set in the midst of the boxes and pouches of tea, aesthetically, as if it's a sculpture, and he eyes Angela before pushing his fingers in the midst of it all and pulling something out at random. He looks at the spoils in his hands and lifts his brows at the forest berry herbal infusion he brought out with it, then chuckles and replaces the tea ball amongst the rest of the tea; he won't be needing it with a bag. Angela's heart feels heavy as she lifts her gaze back to his eyes, examining him with care.

"You fought your brother again. He knows that you're alive?"

"I went looking for him. Well - that sounds more difficult than it was. Let me rephrase. I went to see him, as I already knew where I'd find him. Do not worry; my brother poses me no danger. I won, finally, thanks to the body you built me and the training I've had and, perhaps most of all, thanks to my soul which is lighter than his and allows me to move without the burden of guilt. He is sluggish and encumbered by his own, and therefore, his bow and arrows are no match for my blade. I spoke with him, that is all, after he ceased to think I was no one of importance. Perhaps I will speak of it in more detail one day, Angela, but now is not that day. I want you to know that it was my choice - that should be enough for now."

The unease within Angela settles somewhat, but not completely. She nods, reaching her hand into the basket; she brings out a bar of chocolate, unwraps it, and bites into it without breaking apart the pieces first. The sweetness warms her up once more as she covers the remaining pieces with foil and places the bar on the table in front of her, her eyes following and then settling to stare at it.

"You seem troubled," Genji points out. "Usually by now we'd be laughing. Have we truly grown this old that our meetings start resembling funerals?"

Angela chuckles - it's a weary, heavy laugh, but it helps her lift her gaze.

"It's the recall," she tells him truthfully, "I feel like I've had lead tied to my body ever since that day."

He nods.  
"Let us not think of our responsibilities, or our burdens, tonight. I came here knowing you might need some cheering up. I, too, am in need of some. It has been a hard path for us for some time now. I would like to forget about it. What do you say?"

Genji reaches out his hand and Angela takes it, and she holds it firmly, nodding, her lips still sticky with chocolate. Genji leans over to her - he's practically lying down on the table now, his ribs touching the steaming mug of tea between them - and he tastes that sweetness of her lips, his mouth lingering over hers until she's pushing up against his touch, and they stay like that for what feels like an eternity, barely kissing, sometimes simply letting their lips hover near one another's before rejoining them, and she feels that same burn from years ago in her body again. It scorches her chest and melts like burning steel down into her belly and down, flooding her thighs with warmth until even her knees are red with blush underneath her leggings, and she feels overcome with some strange bravery - a desire - that pushes her up in her chair until their mouths are locked again, and this time, she doesn't back out. She holds his lower lip, the sensory-ridden soft plastic of it, with her teeth until the skin of his upper lip comes down and catches hers between, and their tongues touch, and she opens her mouth to let him in; he takes the hint and crawls ever so slightly closer to her, the table underneath him creaking in agony as its joints bend and twist underneath the pull of his body. He stops kissing her to drink some tea, and when they resume it, he tastes of bitter berries.

She hesitates standing up. The last time's still in her memory; she's not sure if he wants to move further from here, and perhaps he feels the same way. It's been ten years and they've never made it past this stage, and it's been good for them, never too little and almost always a little too much, but tonight, finally, he picks up her hand and pulls her with him and they cross the apartment until he realises he's never been there and turns to her, lost and laughing, and she snorts at him and tugs him on and takes the lead, bringing him to her bed. Once he knows where they're going, he fights her for control; they fall down amongst the blankets and the pillows with a little puff of a sound from the mattress beneath, wrestling, kissing, touching, and this time she's nearly certain he feels the same way she does - just as hot, just as wired, and just as ready. His kisses have a drive to them she doesn't remember from the last time, but which remind her of the way he was the first time they got this close. There's confidence in them that he didn't have in the tent, confidence that trickled away from him during the Overwatch years, and which has now returned, strangely more balanced and reliable than before: she feels herself melting into that feeling, that trust that his carefully calculated, controlled strength and affection build within her, and it's easy to be set on fire like this, to forget that she's flesh and blood, and let the need within her consume her whole. She's crawling into him - hips up, knees on both sides of him, belly touching the plate over his. She wants closer than this, she wants to be just one body with him, but there's too much between them still; her clothes, his plates, and years of separation and insecurity, unspoken things written in invisible ink only between the bold, black lines of their letters.

Angela whispers his name, like breaking a seal over something sacred.

His next kiss comes down between her collarbones, and her own hands are far down already, trailing the sensitive artery line of his thigh; she knows where to touch him, how to touch him, because she built these nerves, she designed them, she planted them and fine-tuned them until he could feel the touches he needed to, until he could feel the touches he _wanted_ to. She wants to give him all of it now, every single level of pressure to the brink of pain, but he's known enough pain, so that treshold is where she stops. Instead of crossing it, she keeps kissing him wherever she can reach - the top of his head amongst to mess of his hair, the curve of his jaw, the muscle of his shoulder connecting to his neck. He's shaking, but in a good way; there's no sign of fear or hesitation in him, and his breathing is heavy the same way hers is, and there's a depth in his eyes whenever their gazes meet that speaks a language all on its own.

"You sure about this?" she asks him anyway, just to hear him say it, hear his want, hear his need.

"I want this," he says, and his voice is dripping honey straight out of a bottle held above fire, so warm and so thick as the words fall off his lips, "You do too, right? This is - what you want?"

"I want more than this. I want _all_ of it."

He nods, dives down. She can see his grin. The next thing she knows is his grip over the waist of her leggings, and she lifts her body once more to let him take them off - it feels like the gentlest way to skin someone alive. She uses her toes to untangle the cloth from around her ankles and discards it without looking, without seeing; he's already moved up from there, his fist around the hem of her shirt, and he pulls it up, but it's stuck under her back.

It's one of those things, she figures, when his grip slips and she feels a pain somewhere vaguely around her cheekbone, and he holds his breath and then comes down on her asking if she's alright, and she's laughing uncontrollably - nothing's ever perfect. Her palm presses against the throbbing over her eye and cheek and she's gasping, not from pain but from surprise and laughter, and he's laughing, too, but it's got that careful tone to it like he doesn't know if he should be laughing, and he's constantly making sure that she's still laughing too, as if in permission for him to follow. He's telling her he's sorry over and over again, that he didn't mean to do it - and of course he didn't - and it was an accident and oh god, is she alright, but she's alright even though she's shaking her head; it's the laughter that makes her not alright, her crossed legs with her knee touching his side, and his forehead is against her forehead and it sounds like he can barely breathe by the time he finally rolls off her body. He holds her by the waist, and she nuzzles her face between his and the pillow, and her leg climbs over his and his fingers slip down to the waistline of her underwear, and he holds them there for some time as they both gasp for air, until he finally clears his throat.

"Can we forget that ever happened and start over?" he asks sheepishly, although she can hear the ghost of his laughter still in his voice, and she loves him for it.

"No," she says, unable to hold back another laugh that distorts the word, "because my face hurts. I want to keep this memory. I want to remember your face forever. The shock on it. I want to frame it in my mind palace."

He pulls back and looks at her and tries to look offended about it, but the corners of his mouth are tugging and, instead, he pretends the only thing he ever intended was just to stroke the redness of her punched cheekbone carefully with the side of his thumb. He sighs, and she kisses him, catching his hand and bringing it back down to her hips, intently setting his fingertip underneath the last remaining piece of clothing there. She looks at him with determination and breathes out.

"Take me," she tells him, and if he tried to speak, she'd stolen his voice by then.


End file.
